


Scars

by pocketsfullofstones



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Ballroom Dancing, Basically a dump for all my random Femlock fics, Cutting, Dubious Consent, F/F, Femlock, Femlock dump, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, Romance, Rough Sex, Sheriarty - Freeform, TW: cutting, erotic cutting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-03 14:32:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketsfullofstones/pseuds/pocketsfullofstones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Femlock Fic dump. Warning for one-time Sheriarty with dub-con, cutting, angst, and family hate. Complete, at least for now. If you have any ideas for any future fics you'd like me to write, feel free to comment with them :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How it All Started

**Sherlock**

She couldn’t say she wasn’t tempted; she was. She was tempted to smile and kiss her forehead while the woman did normal, everyday things. She couldn’t say she wasn’t tempted to softly kiss down the doctor’s body, and draw out a kiss for every scar she had. But this is not what John signed up for; she had only wanted a flatmate.

It started out simple enough. Sherlock needed a flatmate to help pay for a one-bedroom apartment in London. She needed to be close to the Scotland Yard, but she needed to be able to save enough money to pay off all the debts she’d collected in her drug-filled days. Of course Sherlock would not ask for help from her sister (or any other member of her family, for that matter), because then that would mean one day she would owe them a favour, such as going to the annual Holmes’ ball. It was a dreadfully _old_ affair, if you asked her.

 

**Flatmate Wanted**

**Requirements:**

**-Willing to pay half of the rent (£635 per mo.) and half of utilities—nonnegotiable.**

**-Willing to sleep in the same bed as me (I am a woman)—nonnegotiable.**

**Meet me in St. Bart’s Hospital (Ask for Sherlock Holmes in the mortuary) weekdays and weekends from 2 a.m. to 6 p.m.**

**I will not give you any location information if you are an idiot.**

Mike Stamford eventually gave the flyer to one of his old colleagues because it was not getting any attention on its own.

**John**

“Sherlock?” she called into the flat. There was no answer, but that meant absolutely nothing. Sherlock never answered her calls. “I got milk.”

She saw Sherlock lying down on the couch. “What the deuce does it matter to me? I never use it.”

“Right”, John sighed. So it was one of _those_ days. “Any cases today?”

“No. It seems as every living being in or around London has decided to be absolutely innocent within the last few weeks. If I didn’t have to pay for the repairs afterwards, I’d be shooting the walls right about now.”

“Thank god for _that._ Anything on the telly?”

“No.” Sherlock stared at the ceiling blankly. Suddenly, she got up, as if she’d had a rush of energy in that precise moment. “What about you; how was work?”

“Work?” John repeated, confused. “You never ask about—“

“I’m asking now. Just answer the question.”

“It was fine. Sarah keeps making eyes at me.” John rolled her eyes, and took the milk out of the plastic bag before shoving it carelessly in the fridge.

“You should give her a chance. She’s not going to be interested in you forever.” Sherlock said, sketching on the pad sitting on the kitchen counter. “And it’s not like any men will come around any time soon.”

“Just what are you saying there, Sherlock?” John asked, offended. “That I’m not pretty or charming enough to get a man’s attention?”

“No. Just...you’re so masculine—which is okay, but not something a man really looks for. A man wants a woman he can take care of, fuck, whatever”, she said, disgusted. “You can handle things on your own, and you don’t need any help, and you make sure people know it. Men tend to shy away from that.”

John frowned. She was feminine enough. She thought so, anyways. But still...maybe Sherlock had a point. “What’s with this whole observation, anyways?”

“I’m just providing an answer to the question you’ve been asking yourself this past year.”

“Jesus, has it already been...”

“Since six months ago, John. You are so....just...unseeing”, Sherlock said, frustrated.

John sighed, and rested her head on the counter. It saddened her when she upset Sherlock. With everyone else, it was ‘Who gives a crap, she’s just a know-it-all freak’, but Sherlock chose her because she was somehow better than all the rest. Honestly, it was incredibly humbling. So she tried to understand Sherlock, but she was a book bound shut. By barbed wire.


	2. Semi-Self-Inflicted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sheriarty begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combined these because I didn't feel like posting a whole chapter in segments.

**John**

“Oh, fuck...”

John stopped short in the entryway. Grocery bags slipped from her hands and crashed noisily on the floor. The sounds of sweet, passionate sex didn’t stop at her obvious arrival. She didn’t know what to do. She could leave, but then the milk would go sour on the floor, because she could bet you a million dollars, Sherlock would not put it in the fridge as soon as she was done with her little love-making session.

So John rolled her shoulders, let out a small sigh, and picked up the bags. She went into the kitchen, in clear sight of the couch. After putting the groceries in the pantry and fridge, she allowed herself a little peek. Her mouth gaped when she saw Moriarty pinning Sherlock’s arms above her head, and lowering her own to suckle at the detective’s breast.

John froze. She couldn’t stop watching, no matter how much her brain tried to make her walk into the bedroom and slam the door behind her. It was rough, unloving, and rude. Moriarty made Sherlock scream obscenities; her head between the woman’s legs, still somehow having hold of her wrists.

It was only when Moriarty was shoved from the couch that John could move.

“See you tomorrow, my sweet”, Moriarty said after she was fully dressed. On her way out of the flat, she winked at John.

“What the bloody _hell_ was that?” John demanded. She walked from behind the kitchen counter and approached her flatmate.

“Nothing.” Sherlock pulled her shirt over her head, and, unable to find her pants, walked to the bathroom.

“That was obviously _not_ nothing, Sherlock. I mean—literally walking on _anybody_ else doing that to you would be fine, if not a little embarrassing, but that woman is your enemy! Do you not remember?!”

“Obviously I do.”

**Sherlock**

She eyed herself in the mirror. Bite marks decorated her neck and chest, as did a cut from Moriarty’s butterfly knife. _So this is what you do now,_ her sister’s voice sounded in her head, _fuck your enemies to run away from your pitiful little life._ Mycroft would never say that—she knew this—, but that was the voice of hatred her brain chose.

“I just—“

“You just _what,_ John? Where do you have a place to comment on my sex life? I don’t comment on your lovers.” _Because you don’t have any,_ she wanted to say, but that’s not what this was about. John was disappointed in her; she didn’t need to add insulted to the list.

John rolled her eyes. “Don’t make this about me. This is about _you_ making poor, and frankly, bloody _insane_ choices!”

“That is none of your business.”

“I’m your friend; that makes it my business.”

“I don’t have friends”, Sherlock scoffed.

She wasn’t surprised when John rushed towards her in rage. She was even less surprised when John slapped her. However, she was taken aback when John hugged her.

“John...” Sherlock warned. She was not a hugs person.

John didn’t let go. “You’re wrong, you know. You have so many people that care about you.”

Sherlock laughed. “No I don’t! Why would anyone care about me?”

“Because you’re an idiot.”

“I don’t think that’s the right answer to—“

“Hush.”

Sherlock smiled warmly, and ran her hands through John’s hair. “You need to change barbers”, she said under her breath. “You should really let me cut your hair sometime.”

“Not a chance, Sherlock”, John said, as she stood straight. She brushed off her slacks, and looked up at Sherlock. A hand extended to lightly trace the bites and cuts around her neck. “Get yourself cleaned up and let me take care of that.”

**John**

This was uncomfortable, to say the least. How did she get talked into this? She didn’t even remember. She was just making macaroni and cheese for dinner when she heard Sherlock hiss loudly.

“Sherlock?” she called, dropping her wooden spoon. When she heard nothing in response, she turned the stove off, and walked swiftly to the bathroom. The door was open, so she walked in.

The bathwater was tinted pink, with little swirls of red in various places. Sherlock was crouched over, hugging her knees. There was a deep gash in the side of her thigh that John hadn’t noticed earlier.

“Christ, Sherlock...” she grabbed a washcloth from the bathroom counter, and wet it with lukewarm water. John knelt beside Sherlock and lightly dabbed at the wound. She wanted to ask why she did it, why she had sex with a woman that hurt her this much, but that was not a question she could bear to ask.

Sherlock’s shoulders shook, silently sobbing. “What’s for dinner?” she asked, trying to make the conversation more _normal,_ if there ever was such a thing between them.

“Macaroni and cheese”, John answered. She sighed. “This isn’t working. We need to get you cleaned up and dry so I can work on closing the wound. I’m sorry, there’s no way I can avoid leaving a scar without going to a hosp—“

“Not an option.”

“Sherlock, if you’d just...never mind, fine. Can you clean up on your own?”

“Of course I can! I’m not a child, John.” But as Sherlock reached for her shower puff, she groaned, and John knew it would take hours if she left the detective to her own devices.

“Right. Just move over, I’ll help.” She lifted her jumper up over her head, and unclasped her bra. After shimmying out of her slacks and pants, she stepped delicately into the bathtub and sat next to Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled her eyes. “I feel like an infant.”

“Well maybe if you stopped _acting_ like one...” John trailed off, her eyes wandering down the detective’s neck and down to her breasts...

“I don’t think we need that much soap, John.”

That snapped her back into concentration. She looked at the shower puff, drenched in Irish Spring body wash. “Right...” She shook her head, chastising herself. “Can you turn around?”

**Sherlock**

_Absolutely. If I can stop staring at your breasts, maybe I can muster enough strength to turn my entire body away from them._ What was she doing? This was her flatmate. Frustrated at herself, Sherlock obliged John, and tried not to moan at the sensation of John’s hands trailing down her back, washing away the metaphorical dirt she’d acquired from that nasty situation with Moriarty.

“So...how was work?” she asked, and groaned at herself when her voice cracked.

“It was okay. Boring as hell, actually. Not one appointment, just a stack of paperwork.”

“Oh. You should have had Sarah do that and come by.”

John laughed. “I don’t know if I would have liked that.”

 _Oh. Right._ “Why don’t you ask Sarah out?”

“I’ve told you before; I’m not gay.”

“And here you are, bathing me.” Sherlock chuckled deeply.

“Don’t get any ideas. This is purely medical.”

“Right”, Sherlock said, not completely believing her. “I solved a case today.”

“Oh? Who was it this time?”

“The father. Turns out the step-mother had planned to ship his kids off to boarding school. A bit dull, if you ask me.”

“Can you...turn around?” John asked, clearing her throat.

“Sure.” Sherlock closed her eyes, and clambered around to face John. “Alright...I’ve given it little thought, and I’ve decided...you can get a dog.”

“Really?” John’s eyes widened, and she smiled. “What made you change your mind?”

“If you have to walk in on me getting eaten out by our mortal enemy, you should get something in compensation.”

**John**

She winced at the general frankness of Sherlock’s words. Did this mean it would be happening again? This is not why she scolded Sherlock...she wanted it to stop. It wasn’t just that she didn’t want to see it happen (even though that weighed in a bit too). “Does that mean...”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“It’s none of your business.”

John groaned. “Fine. Whatever. But I’m not going to clean you up every time this happens. In a way, it’s self-inflicted. It’s your choice, but...I’m disappointed.”

“I know you are”, Sherlock said. She opened her eyes. “But as you said, it’s _my_ choice...so I don’t want to hear anything about it.”

“Can you at least warn me when it’s going to happen?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because Moriarty’s unpredictable when it comes to this. So just adopt your furry little menace, and deal with it. I think you’d prefer we do it on the couch than on the bed we share, yes?”

“God, yes.”

**Sherlock**

“Would you quit that?!” Sherlock nearly screamed, flinching as the needle went in her skin once again.

“Hey, you’re the one who didn’t want anaesthetic. Don’t blame me.”

“Please just tell me it’s almost over”, she groaned, shutting her eyes tight. The needle pricked her skin a final time, and John tied the thread.

“You’re such a baby”, John teased. She unthreaded the needle and put it back in her first aid kit. “Sure you don’t want a whiskey or something?”

“Alcohol is the last thing I need”, Sherlock grunted, as she pulled herself up from the couch. “I’m just going to go to bed.”

“Not a chance, Missy”, John said. “Anyways, I doubt you could walk there on your own.”

She struggled to try. “Fine. I’ll have your dinner.” It was better than starving, anyways. But she would never admit that. “We’ve run out of daily pleasantries. Telly?”

“Why not?”

**John**

The rest of the night was pretty ordinary. Sherlock ate a third of her dinner, which was more than she’d eaten in one sitting for a month, so John let her go to bed without any nagging.

She sighed as she stared at the television. Nothing good was on, as per usual. She looked down at the couch, and ran her fingers along where Sherlock had been lying earlier that evening. For some reason, the incident didn’t make her want to burn the couch and shove it through a wood chipper. It made her...sad? Not sad that Sherlock chose Moriarty to do those kinds of things with, but sad that...she wasn’t included?

She laughed at herself. Was she jealous of Moriarty? That’s the only conclusion she could come up with, even if she denied it up and down. She wanted to know what made Sherlock moan and curse...no. She shook her head vigorously, and got up from the couch.

John walked into the kitchen, and filled her bowl with water to wash in the morning. Without another look to the couch, she went to the bedroom and took off her robe. “You asleep yet?” she asked the motionless figure on the left side of the bed.

A mumble sounded in response. Then Sherlock turned her head from the centre of the pillow, and looked at John as she slipped into bed. “I’m just very still. Right now that’s the best I can do.”

John looked at her with pity. Sherlock hardly ever got a full night’s sleep.

**Sherlock**

It didn’t take long for the doctor to fall asleep. Sherlock sighed, and turned over towards her flatmate to hear her talk in her sleep. It was something John was unaware that she did, and it helped Sherlock find what little peace there was to be had.

“No, I’m not...jealous. I just...” a soft voice mumbled.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. Usually it was nonsense, like “don’t hug the purple gorilla”, or “blue toothpaste is good for rhinos”.

“I love--”

Sherlock coughed loudly, trying to wake John up without making it obvious she’d been listening. It did no good. This couldn’t be real. This only happened in those stupid romance stories John read in the bathtub. She got up and out of bed, deciding to sleep on the couch.

But she didn’t sleep. 


	3. Sherlock Ballroom Bash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot stress this enough: WHAT HAPPENS LATER IN THIS CHAPTER IS NOT HOW REAL ASEXUALS THINK. As far as I know, anyways. I don't want people taking my own opinions on sex to heart and think that's how all asexuals (if any) think, okay? The entirety of the idea will be continued in another chapter. 
> 
> The full process of thought is riddled with my own ideas about weakness. I hate to cry because I think it makes me appear weak, I hate the idea of being vulnerable, even in bed. Now stop trying to figure out my fucked up logic, and continue reading!
> 
> P.S. Yes, her parents are based on Hawke's parents in DA2. I tried to stop myself but couldn't.

**  
**The dresses:

   

Sherlock's Dress                                                          John's Dress                                                                   Mycroft's Dress

**John**

“You know I don’t wear dresses.”

“Too bad, Sherlock. We promised to go to your family’s ball, and it’s a very formal affair.” John zipped up the back of Sherlock’s strapless dress. “Would you rather be wearing a tux?”

Sherlock rolled her eyes. “I withdraw the complaint.” She grabbed her coat and put it on over the dress. It looked surprisingly good that way. “Would you like me to stay with you the entire time? You don’t know anybody that will be there.”

John paused. “That’s...very considerate. Yes, I’d quite like that. Thank you.”

The truth was, she didn’t mind being the only alone person in a crowd. She was used to it. But this was her chance to learn about Sherlock’s family, and she couldn’t squander that for the sake of being alone. And if she were to share a dance or two with Sherlock, that wouldn’t be so bad either.

“John...”

“Yes?” She turned to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “What is it?”

**Sherlock**

Her heartbeat was breaking her concentration. Her palms suddenly started to sweat. She wanted to look at anything else but John’s twinkling grey blue eyes. She couldn’t talk about this; why did she ever think she could? Oh, this was childish. She brushed a lock of hair out of John’s eyes. “Look...”

“Yes?”

 _I can’t do this. She didn’t sign up for this. This isn’t what she wants. I’ll just tell her something else. No turning back now._ “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to make a big deal out of it. Today’s my birthday, and they’re going to ask you to make a toast to me.”

“What? Oh, Sherlock, you should’ve told me! I don’t know what I’m going to say, I’ve never toasted anyone before—“

“Calm down. You’ll be good at this.” Sherlock smiled. “Or we could just not go, if you want.”

John laughed. “Not a chance, birthday girl.”

She groaned. “Worth a try.”

**John**

The cab ride on the way over there was overly long and silent. Sherlock sat in her seat, still as a tree as she stared out the window. City lights came and went, and the smell of the night air surrounded them. It was an hour until they got to the Holmes’ estate. Sherlock took John’s hand, and led her out of the cab.

They went through the garden, and John’s mouth gaped. “Jesus...I don’t know what to say...”

The garden was circular, framed by rose bushes. Beyond the roses was an apple orchard that seemed to go on infinitely in all directions. In the centre sat a fountain of three tiers, where water flowed from the centre of a tulip on the top. Candles sat on the sides of each tier, dimly lighting the garden.

Sherlock chuckled.

“What?”

“You can let go of my hand, you know.”

John looked down. Her fingers were entangled with Sherlock’s. She didn’t remember how this happened, but she didn’t necessarily want to stop. But under the pressure of her flatmate’s gaze, she let go. “I know that”, she said.

“Let’s go inside. They’ll send out a search party if we’re even five minutes late.” Sherlock rolled her eyes, and passed the fountain swiftly without a second look at it.

John had to wonder why she chose to live in a shitty one-bedroom apartment rather than here. It was simply beautiful.

“Hurry up, John.”

**Sherlock**

She approached her family with narrowed eyes. Mycroft was wearing a pear-coloured dress, and it did not suit her. “Mycroft, over-dressed, as usual”, she said with a tight smile.

Mycroft rolled her eyes. “Did you spend all day coming up with that? No wonder you aren’t taking cases.”

“I told you once, and I will say it once more: I work for myself, not you. No amount of money will convince me that your ‘cases’ are worthy of my time.”

Her sister stared at her for a second, hatred clear.

“Now, now, let’s stop this”, Sherlock’s mother joined in, stepping between the sisters. She paused to look at John. “Miss Watson, I take it?”

“Yes”, John smiled. “And you are...?”

“Leandra Holmes. A pleasure, I’m sure.” She squinted at the doctor, looking her up and down for a brief second. As if satisfied, she smiled warmly. “Mycroft talks a lot about you.”

“Oh? I was expecting you to say that about Sherlock”, John laughed.

“Not at all. I hardly get a word out of my daughter on the holidays, let alone during the year.”

“There’s a reason for that, mother”, Sherlock said, gritting her teeth. “I have a thousand word count that I keep track of with you menaces in order to not be more friendly than required.”

Leandra rolled her eyes. “Yes, it seems I forget every year how troublesome you are until you show up at my home again.”

“Not my choice. Where’s Father?”

“In his study. He’s not feeling well.”

“So I gathered.” Sherlock turned to John. “Do you mind if I leave you for a moment? I must talk to my father about private matters. You can meet him later, if you like.”

“Not a problem”, John grinned. “I’ll just be getting to know you.”

She groaned. “Mycroft, if you tell her the story about the runaway ferret, I will hang you with your own intestines.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Now I know where to start.”

* * *

**Sherlock**

“How long do you have?” she asked.

“Are we beyond pleasantries, Sherly? I thought that silly argument was over long ago.” Malcolm Holmes rolled his wheelchair from behind his desk to meet his daughter. “Or was I wrong?”

Sherlock rolled her eyes. “Answer the question. I have no interest in doing this little tango of words like we always do. You should be surprised I came to see you at all.”

He chuckled. “You never change, Sherly.”

“Don’t call me that. My name is _Sherlock.”_

A short breath of air was let out. “They gave me six months.”

“Should have given you less. You’re not going to make it that long.” Sherlock crossed her arms.

“Jesus, Sherlock. I know we’ve had our differences, but you’re still my flesh and blood. Why must you play this game with everyone, including your own family?”

“You are many things, Father, but in my eyes, you are the farthest from _family_ that I have. Why don’t you spend your last few days with the people who still give a shit?”

His brow furrowed. “You’re a lost cause, Sherly. I wish I’d seen that before I spent too much time trying to change it.”

Sherlock laughed. “Me? A lost cause? I don’t think I’m the one who told his daughters that they were selfish little brats with every breath that I had. I don’t think it was me that beat every one of my misguided words into my children. If that’s what you truly think of me, Father, then this is the last time we speak.”

She turned around and left his study.

**John**

“And that’s the tale of the runaway ferret.”

John laughed. “I never thought Sherlock was such an animal lover.”

“Oh, you’ll find I am _full_ of surprises.”

Mycroft laughed. “Done arguing with Father, then? Good. Ser Dairen has been looking for you.”

Sherlock sighed, and smiled tightly. “As long as his mother isn’t. Next time you see him, tell him I am not looking for a dance partner this evening. I have much more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Like what?” Leandra laughed. “The next excuse to escape from your _own_ birthday party?”

“For starters, Mother.” Sherlock turned to John. “Would you like to dance?”

 _Isn’t that against the rules or something?_ John looked at Sherlock’s family. They didn’t seem to be against it.

**Sherlock**

As she led John away from the disaster area, Sherlock heard Mycroft and Leandra making bets.

“Okay, I’ll do twenty for a kiss in the garden”, her sister said.

“Fifty that they have sex tonight.”

“And in the event of a tie we both pitch in for a ‘congratulations’ present.”

“Sounds good.”

Sherlock rolled her eyes as she took John’s right hand and let her other hand rest on John’s hip.

“What’s wrong?”

“They’re betting on us.”

“For what?!”

“They enjoy turning my love life into sport.”

John threw her head back in laughter. “Your family’s a bit odd.”

“I am aware of this.”

“So what’s in the betting pool so far?”

“Mycroft’s in for twenty thousand that we kiss in the garden. My mother’s betting fifty grand that we have sex tonight.”

“Fifty grand? Wow, money really is no object for them.”

“Oh, they’ve bet more on less.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that they do that?”

“Absolutely. But I prefer it to living here.”

John frowned. “And why would that be so bad?”

“You’ve met my family. This is just what they do in public. Need I say more?”

She laughed. “I withdraw the question then. May I ask something else?”

“There’s no stopping you, is there?”

“You know it”, John smiled. “...Why did you ask me to dance?”

Sherlock frowned. “I enjoy your company. You’re not overly annoying, you let my personal business be just that—mine. The only times you cross that line is when you’re concerned for me. What better friend—or dance partner, in this case—could I ask for?”

John blushed. “You could find far better than me.”

“You know very well that I couldn’t.”

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled. “Do you want to go out to see the garden? It’s much more beautiful at this time of night.”

“Are you sure you’re not looking for an excuse to kiss me?”

“No, but if I were, would you say no?”

“We’ll never find out now, will we?”

“I know the answer already”, Sherlock smirked.

“Of course you do. C’mon, let’s go before your family notices.” John pulled Sherlock through the crowd of dancers, giggling as they stared.

“The most inconspicuous escape in history, I’m sure”, Sherlock muttered under her breath once they were in the garden.

John gasped as she looked at the sky. Stars glittered through the night. “You were right.”

“I used to climb to the tallest tree at midnight to look at the night sky. It’d help me fall asleep most nights. It’s fascinating after all these years, it’s still as clear as it was when I was nine.”

Silence surrounded them, and it was invited. John smiled as she realised she hadn’t let go of Sherlock’s hand. “Sherlock...what’s my answer?”

She turned to face John, and brushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “Yes”, she whispered, leaning in to place a tender kiss on her doctor’s lips. “You do realize Mycroft won the bet, now...”

“Oh, who gives a shit about some bet?” John laughed softly. She threw her arms around Sherlock, and their lips crushed against each other’s. Their tongues clashes as their hungry kisses became more desperate. The held each other so close, but somehow it wasn’t close enough. When they were out of breath, they limited themselves to short, soft, closed kisses.

“Hey, lovebirds, it’s time for your toast”, Mycroft said. The smile on his face was wide and unending.

The couple broke apart, laughing. “Now she’s really won the bet”, John said.

“I recall someone asking if anyone gave a shit.”

“Shut up.” John punched her in the arm lightly.

“Let’s go, or my mother will throw a fit.”

**John**

“Wow...” she said, biting her lip nervously. “I’m surprised how many people are standing here tonight to celebrate Sherlock’s 32nd birthday. I know firsthand that Sherlock’s made a lot of enemies, but I am proud to call her my friend. She’s beautiful, intelligent, talented, and sometimes quite a handful, but she’s always honest, and everyone needs a friend like that. So, Sherlock, I wish you the happiest of birthdays!”

Applause roared into the high ceiling, and John beamed at Sherlock.

“We can leave now, if you want”, Sherlock said.

“But what about your gifts?”

“My mother will send them to the flat. She always does.”

John rolled her eyes. “You are just _set_ on not staying any longer than you have to, aren’t you?”

“You just now noticed?”

* * *

**John**

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we have to leave”, she said. She rubbed Sherlock’s arm as if soothing her from the nonexistent migraine.

“Oh, so soon?” Leandra asked. “Sherlock hasn’t even opened her presents yet.”

“Scarf, cuff links, head wrap—do you people even know me, really?” Sherlock rubbed at her temples. “Just send it to the flat, like you always do. Better I leave now; I have a case in the morning.”

“I didn’t know Lestrade had so much planned for you, Sherlock”, Mycroft said. Her all-knowing smiled reached into John’s soul and whispered _“I know you’re lyiiiiiing....”_

“Well, I hope you feel better in the morning”, her mother said. “I’ll call a cab for you.”

Leandra and Mycroft Holmes left them alone in the dining room, which was unoccupied except for the detective and doctor. “This is a very bad thing that we’re doing, Sherlock Holmes. Very...” John took a deep breath, “bad.”

“Would you rather sit here as I grit my teeth pretending I _like_ all the useless things these buffoons bought me?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure we could find a use or two for those ties...”

Sherlock stared at John. _I’d never pegged her for a naughty one._ She chuckled. “Now who’s bad here?”

“It’s still you, Sherlock.”

She shrugged.

* * *

**John**

She laughed loudly when she was slammed against the door, Sherlock pressing wet, passionate kisses in her neck as she fumbled to unlock the door to their flat. “So technically, they both won the bet”, she said, moaning halfway through the sentence.

“Not yet, they haven’t”, Sherlock chuckled in her deep, airless voice. “I should also warn you...”

“Oh, and what do I need to be warned about?”

“I’m _very_ kinky”, she whispered in her ear; the door finally clicked and was pushed open.

Their lips locked, tongues fighting for dominance, and their hands travelled to everywhere they could reach. She attempted to kick the door shut twice before Sherlock groaned and slammed it closed with her foot. She wrapped her arms around Sherlock, and caught her breath by trailing open-mouthed kisses down her neck. She stopped to roughly bite the top of her breast, and was pleased to hear a surprised shriek. “You’re _mine_ ”, she whispered, and quickly yanked the zipper on Sherlock’s dress down. “And _everyone_ is going to know.”

Sherlock smirked, and tilted her chin up to kiss her tenderly. “Yes, Miss Watson”, she said, biting John’s bottom lip before the dirtiest of smiles spread across her face.

She didn’t know where this possessive beast came from, but she enjoyed its role _fully._ John slowly pulled down Sherlock’s dress, and with every new area of skin uncovered, she laid a kiss. When she got to her blue lacy pants, a hand tangled in her hair and lightly tugged her up. “What?”

“Nothing”, Sherlock said. She smiled, and unzipped John’s dress from the back. She slowly pushed her sleeves down her arms, and the dress along with it. Eventually it was low enough to step out of. Sherlock took John’s hand, and led her to the bedroom. She didn’t want to do this where she’d done it with Moriarty. She wanted to have her doctor, moaning in writhing, in _their_ bed.

John laughed as she was pushed down onto their bed. Sherlock clambered on top of her, and traced the length of her neck with her tongue. She quivered as kisses and licks reached her breasts, and stopped to suckle at her left nipple. A hand trailed softly down her stomach, and tugged at her pants until they managed to come off.

Sherlock raised her head to look into her eyes, not blinking as she stuck two fingers in John’s mouth. “Get them wet”, she whispered in her ear, and held in a chuckle as a hesitant tongue circled her fingers. “Good girl.” She removed her fingers from her mouth, and let her hand go back down. She let her slick digits slowly enter the woman below her, and smirked at the gasp that escaped her mouth.

“Oh, fuck!” John shouted as she let her fingers curve sharply in a come-hither motion. Sherlock silenced her by bringing their lips to a full-frontal snog. Just as her tongue plunged into the depths of her lover’s mouth, they both moaned. She kept curving her fingers, sometimes sharp and fast, other soft and unhurried.

“Can you manage to be quiet?” Sherlock asked, panting for breath. “We don’t want to scar poor Mrs. Hudson now...”

John nodded, not trusting her voice. She bit her lip and let out a guttural moan when Sherlock lowered her head and started licking her clit. Her fingers were now moving at full speed, and she knew soon it would be too much for her. Her back arched, and she made the mistake of opening her mouth. “Oh, fuck...Sherlock...FUCK!” she screamed, and her legs shook uncontrollably as she saw stars. The only sounds she could make for a while were loud, shaky sighs.

And then a laugh interrupted her high. “What?”

“Your face looks funny when you cum.”

“Shut up, Holmes.” John sighed, and closed her eyes. Sherlock raised herself from between John’s legs and lie next to her. “I think...I can handle kinky.”

“Yeah, tell me that again when the endorphins wear off.”

“Deal.” John took advantage of the incredibly calm moment, and rolled over to pin Sherlock’s hands above her head. “Your turn”, she said breathlessly, lowering her head to suckle at her neck.

“Um...John, if you don’t mind...”

“What?”

“I don’t get a turn.”

John looked completely and utterly confused as she sat up on Sherlock’s pelvis. She expected for her to complain and make her get off, but Sherlock just stared at her, completely emotionless face mode on. “But I thought...but we...”

“We _are._ I’m not taking anything back. I just don’t...do that.”

“Bullshit, Sherlock. Fucking Jane Moriarty did that, and you didn’t have a fucking problem with it then!”

“She was going to kill me. There’s a _colossal_ difference.”

“But...” John looked down, and slowly trailed a finger down Sherlock’s stomach. “Why? Can I know that, at least?”

“I wasn’t lying when I told you I’m asexual. I’m fine with having sex with you, but in general it’s uncomfortable thinking about someone having sex with _me._ It’s not about you, do you understand?”

“I guess...” John frowned. “Does this mean I can’t kiss you?”

“No, it doesn’t mean that. Come here.” Sherlock took her hands and pulled her to fall softly on her chest. She ran a hand through John’s hair, and kissed her forehead. “Let’s just go to sleep.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”


	4. Blood Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John discovers Sherlock's secret. 
> 
> (Set in the original 221b instead of the regular one bedroom flat.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the prompt: When Mycroft steps on Sherlock’s sheet at Buckingham Palace, Sherlock stops and the sheet never gets pulled down. John asks why and Sherlock gets all defensive and quiet. John pushes him until he talks. Either he has body issues or self harm scars.
> 
> I may just leave it this way instead of finishing it. Come bother me with a comment if you really want it to continue.

“Good day”, Sherlock said, a smirk playing on her face as she began to walk away. But then she felt it. A little tug at the end of her sheet. It began to slide down her shoulders, down her back, and she stopped. Sherlock snarled at her brother, hitching it back over her shoulders. “Get off my sheet!” she demanded.

“Or what?” Mycroft taunted, and Sherlock could picture her brother’s ugly smile— _I dare you to defy me._

“Or I’ll just walk away”, Sherlock threatened.

“I’ll let you.”

Indecision froze her brain. She _really_ didn’t want to be here, but was she willing to risk...? No. No, she wasn’t.

So she turned around, and walked to the table. Sherlock picked up her clothes and excused herself to a room where she could have some privacy.

After a case was thrust upon them, shortly before Sherlock proved she was the smartest person in the room—once again—John called a cab.

And so here they were.

“Why didn’t you step away?” John asked. She was looking through the window, rain splashing itself upon the tinted glass.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock had her sheet bundled in her lap. She absent-mindedly picked at a tiny ball of lint that attached itself to the fabric.

“Mycroft stepped on your sheet, and you threatened to walk away. You’ve already proven you’re immature enough to actually _do_ such a thing, so I have to wonder why you didn’t.”

Sherlock raised her eyebrows for a millisecond, and brought them back down just as fast. It was as if her face was shrugging—she did that every time she agreed with something, but didn’t _want_ to agree with it.

“Oh, now you don’t want to talk? You’re so inconsistent.”

“Just let it go, John”, Sherlock whispered.

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t want to talk about it”, she said louder.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t! Use your slightly above-average mind to figure out yourself or something, just don’t bother me about it once you’ve come to the wrong conclusion.” Her face was now contorted into an angry frown, her fingers now furiously attempting to pluck at the lint on her sheet.

John’s brow furrowed. “Alright...no need to be a dick about it.”

The doctor didn’t mention the subject for a week, and when she did, it was after she rooted through Sherlock’s room.

She only had to complain for a good five minutes before the detective went to the store to replace the milk, jam, and everything else she had stuffed one body part or other into. John went carefully, struggling with sweat and the flesh of her palm to get her hands into latex gloves—if John left any fingerprints, she knew Sherlock would analyze them to confirm her suspicions.

Notebooks filled with scribbled writing, inkwells turned over (but apparently they were empty, as no black stain was to be found on the carpet), and just a general mess that made John want to clean the room. She looked through Sherlock’s nightstand and found nothing interesting, so she went to her desk. In the drawers were new inkwells, old inkwells, tips for calligraphy pens, post-its, a few journals for records, and a letter opener. Nothing struck her as odd until she picked up the letter opener. It was sharpened, and a rusty red liquid had dried along the blade.

John dropped the letter opener in shock. Sherlock cut herself? She had no idea...but then, you never really know until you find out, do you?

She scrambled to pick it up, and shoved it back into the desk drawer. Her heart was beating in her ears—she could see Sherlock getting out of a cab through her window. John ran out of the room and shut the door behind her. In a panic, she ran to her own room and struggled to get the gloves off, the rubbery things gripping to every bump and callus on her fingers. The first one was off, and she tossed it to the opposite side of the room. Her back leaning against her own door, John quickly tore off the second glove, wincing at the feeling of her skin rubbing against itself.


	5. More Interesting than Tobacco Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock answers anonymous questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed some funny. Don't judge me. Feel free to comment questions you want John or Sherlock to answer on their blogs!

**Sherlock’s Blog**

ANON: I saw a post on John’s blog saying she walked in on you and Moriarty...doing the deed. How do you justify sleeping with your enemy?  
SH: Who says I need to justify anything to you? 

ANON: What’s it like when your periods sync up?  
SH: I cannot fathom why this is even a _miniscule_ curiosity to you. 

ANON: Have you ever had to cross dress for a case? If so, what persona did you use?  
SH: I’ve often had to dress as a man when otherwise I wouldn’t be allowed in certain areas (for example, a gentleman’s club). I cannot name any personas, because a lot of people are still looking for a few gentlemen I’ve portrayed. I’ve been bachelors, French noblemen, and quite a few “entertainers”. That last one takes hours to do the makeup for. It’s very difficult to make a realistic penis.

ANON: What’s your most favourite persona that you’ve ever played?  
SH: I would have to say an ex-convict. Now, as I said before, I can’t name names, so let’s just call her X. X died merely hours out of escaping prison, and I took the opportunity to use her name to get in close with a gang that had been giving me some trouble. I then set up an elaborate scheme that led a few paranoid smugglers to give up the gang’s location in order to get a three-year sentence in a minimum security prison. I was sad to see X go. She...she was complicated.

ANON: So now I have to know: has John ever played a persona for a case?  
SH: I doubt you _have_ to know, but she has not. The closest she has gotten to it is when we almost got caught at a stakeout and we had to pretend to be having intercourse in order be inconspicuous. 

ANON: Does John really like jam oh-so-much?  
SH: She has it on her toast every morning. I haven’t observed her eating it with something jam is not intended to be smeared on. Do what you will with that information. 

ANON: Have you ever drugged John in a case (other than in The Hounds of Baskerville)?  
SH: One time when John was overly upset at me I put something in her drink to calm her down and help us obtain information without any arguing. Other than that, no.

ANON: So how does the whole sleeping-in one-bed thing work?   
SH: We sleep on our sides because if John snored she would not be living any longer by morning. 

ANON: What kind of sex games do you guys play?  
SH: Someone’s getting curious, now.

ANON: How is Moriarty in bed?  
SH: Monstrous. Next question.


	6. Masochism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really running out of ideas, so please excuse me if there's some breaks. I'm also gearing up to move to Louisiana, and of course there's finals...so, yeah. Sorry :\

**Sherlock**

She woke up to a feeling of absolute euphoria. Her mind was clear, but at the same time _very_ boggled. She felt at her pillow; this was definitely _her_ bed. She looked down and there was quite a _sizeable_ bump in the sheets. A hurried breath blew in-between her legs, and she panicked. Sherlock climbed towards the head of the bed and tore the blanket off. Between her naked limbs was the head of John Watson. And suddenly it clicked: she had just had an orgasm.

“Why would you do this?” she began to cry, brow furrowed. She jumped out of bed, and ignored several shouts as she pulled her pants on, and slipped into her coat before she ran out the door. Sherlock realised that she forgot her shoes, but couldn’t be bothered to walk back up the stairs. She stood on the curb and called a taxi to St. Bart’s.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket, and she ignored it until she got impatient at the fourth call. She answered the call. “What?!” she demanded, wiping tears from her cheek.

“I’m sorry, you have to believe—“

“Sorry doesn’t even _begin_ to cut it, John. Why would you ever—You know what? I can’t hear excuses right now. I _told_ you I didn’t want that. But I guess that’s not enough for you, right? Miss three-fucking Continents Watson has to fuck everybody, is that it? I’m too angry to even speak logically right now. I’ll talk to you when I get home.”

“When are you getting home?” John asked. She sounded heartbroken.

“I don’t know. Don’t wait on me.”

“I love you. Please tell me you know that.”

Sherlock growled uncontrollably. “All I know is _FUCK YOU¸_ John Watson!” She hung up and shoved her phone deep into her pocket. Then, the cab stopped. She threw a bundle of cash (definitely _way_ more than she owed) at the cabbie, and got out.

**Bart’s Labs**

“Sherlock, I wasn’t expecting you today”, Molly said, right before jamming her hip in the corner of the metal table. “Shit!” she exclaimed, holding her side. “What brings you here?” she groaned out.

“John had sex with me”, Sherlock said tightly. “Get me my riding crop and an already-examined body.”

Molly made a face. “What?” she asked incredulously. “Oh, never mind. Right away, Sherlock.” She rushed off and out of the room.

She sighed, and sat at Molly’s desk, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her phone vibrated once, but she could not be bothered to check it. She set her phone on the desk, and got up when Molly came back in. Her phone vibrated once, but she could not be bothered to check it. She set her phone on the desk, and got up when Molly came back in. “So, how have you been?” she asked, a tight smile on her face. “Better than I have, I trust?”

“Seems that way.” Molly grunted to pull open a drawer containing a cadaver. “All yours. Do you want to talk about it?”

Sherlock scoffed, and fingered the tip of her riding crop. “Talking will do nothing.” She raised her arm over the body, and Molly cringed right before she brought the riding crop down with brutal force. Three short and hard whips followed. “I was perfectly fine with providing her with pleasure, but she wants more, she wants to force it on _me!”_ She cracked the whip repeatedly until her arm started to hurt.

“Did you ever consider she wanted to give it to you because she felt guilty that she was the only one that was allowed to orgasm? I think she did it because she loves you, and you deserve it. I know you’re not asexual. You’re a dreadful masochist.”

Sherlock cocked her head, and turned to Molly. “What do you mean?”

“If you were asexual, you wouldn't be having sex with her in the first place. It’s because you don’t think you deserve to be loved, or to have any sort of pleasure at all. I may not be your friend, Sherlock, but don’t think that I don’t understand you. I think she sees all of this and wants to show you that it’s okay.”

She paused, and thought it over. “You are my friend, Molly. I apologize for not making that clear.” She sighed, and looked at the floor. “My feet are _freezing._ I think I’m going to go home. Thank you.”

Molly smiled warmly. “Any time.”

**John**

She could do nothing but wait until Sherlock got home. She paced, read, couldn’t concentrate, and then started pacing again. _Dammit, Sherlock...would you just get here,_ she begged in her head. She sighed. She had just wanted to pay her back.

Footsteps stomped up the stairs, and John braced herself. When the door opened, she was prepared to make a thousand apologies, but it wasn’t needed. She was practically assaulted with a hug. “I’m confused”, she said, somehow still managing to breathe.

“I love you.” Sherlock kissed her forehead.

“Now I’m _really_ confused. What’s going on? What did you do?”

“Shut up and kiss me, John.”

_Well, I can’t refuse her that._ She stood on her toes and lightly pressed a kiss into her cheek.

Apparently that wasn’t what Sherlock had in mind, because soon their lips crushed together and John could only breathe between their passionate kisses. She was still confused, but at least it appeared she was forgiven.


	7. Fear, Love, and Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A threeshot I made a while ago. Unrelated to the previous chapters.

"Remember that everyone you meet is afraid of something, loves something, and lost something." –H. Jackson Brown Jr.

**Fear**

Her heart beat in her ears. Her breath was loud and that of a dog in summer. Sherlock gripped the bark on the tree, so roughly that it came off in her hands. The beastly paws approached, sinking into the fresh soil. She stared into its red eyes, so long that her eyes started to water. She couldn’t close her eyes, no matter how close the hound got.

It was a foot away now, hot breath making smoke in the freezing midnight air. As it inched closer, Sherlock pressed her body into the tree with more force, enough so that her tailbone started to hurt. Her lip quivered and her teeth were glued tight.

His wet nose nudged at her hand now, sniffing. And then, the strangest of things...a lick. Her hand was slowly warmed by the hound’s affections, and she laughed anxiously. She raised her hand to scratch between his eyes, and he closed his eyes.

A week later, they were inseparable. The hound, named Billy, would be her warm pillow at night, and her companion on wanderings through London, and would make tracking down criminals that much easier. Sherlock loved her super-sized puppy.

 

* * *

**Love**

Molly always had a silly grin on her face when Sherlock was in the labs. Even though she had rejected her advances, it was the thing she looked forward to every time she knew Sherlock had a case.

People pitied her, more often than not, and this didn’t make any sense to her. She was around her most favourite person; what about that begged for pity? And it wasn’t as if Sherlock wasn’t interested, it was just she didn’t have sex. That was understandable to her. Molly was willing to give up sex for Sherlock; it wasn’t that grand anyways.

But beyond all that naive desperation, Sherlock knew Molly’s heart was in the right place. It just went after the wrong person. But for that, she could do nothing. She enjoyed Molly’s company; what about that was “leading her on”? And in her own way, she _did_ love Molly, just as much as Molly loved her.

Is there anything better than having friends you’re not afraid to love?

* * *

**Loss**

“But it’s evidence.”

“Let her have it, Anderson. Poor girl’s been through enough.”

John was stuck staring at that same place, the same block of pavement, for hours on end. Sherlock’s coat was wrapped around her tightly.

She couldn’t take her eyes off of it. She had promised Mycroft she’d take care of her sister. And now she was...dead. Slipped through her finders like a bar of soap. She kept thinking that there was something she could have done, something she _must_ have been able to do, but there was absolutely nothing.

Sherlock’s heart broke as she looked through the scope of the sniper rifle that had been trained on her. The owner was lying in a pool of his own blood beside her, but he was irrelevant now. Even though she couldn’t see John’s face up close, she knew it held devastation. She didn’t believe Sherlock was a fake, and this granted the detective a sad laugh. John was stubborn. Maybe that was a good thing. 


	8. Saying Goodbye (Author's Note)

Hey guys. Or guy. Or girl. Whatever, you know who you are. It's been a long two weeks for me and it's given me the opportunity to realize I'm not happy where I'm going. Things are actually shaping up in my life, and for some reason I'm not satisfied. It's not often I am satisfied, but right now I have a hard time avoiding the feeling that something is missing. During this time it's hard to write, for my own enjoyment, assignments, or for you wonderful people. This is not the end for this account and I have no intention to quit writing, but I have to put this story to rest. I may write more random Fem!Johnlock, in which case I would add this story and whatever stories to come to a collection. I hope you guys understand.


End file.
